


it exhausts me to watch you

by tigriswolf



Series: unfinisheds [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Awesome Dean, Gen, Harm to Animals, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first solo hunt, and he’s already made a mistake. -Pre-Canon AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: it exhausts me to watch you  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: the Winchesters aren’t mine. title from Sylvia Plath  
> Warnings: pre-series; AU; explicit death of magical creatures  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 4480  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: I wanted to write a drabble while waiting for class to start, so I gave myself the prompt _green_. This is the result. It’s a bit more than a drabble. *growls at plotwolves who don’t know when to shut up*  
>  Another note: written in 2008

His first solo hunt, and he’s already made a mistake. There’re four instead of two—Mama Nasty, Papa Nasty, and then Baby Nasty One and Baby Nasty Two. 

Papa Nasty went down, a consecrated iron knife in his left eye, but Mama Nasty is still in the burrow with her spawn.

Dad’s back in Oregon with laryngitis and Sammy has finals. It was supposed to be an easy hunt, two young black dogs out making their own pack.

Dean has no idea what they are. Hybrids, maybe. Something new, or maybe something very old. But he has to get them before going home. They’ve already killed half a dozen people, two of them kids.

He sure wishes Dad were here.

Mama Nasty growls. Dean sinks lower behind the fallen log. She knows exactly where he is, but refuses to leave her—pups? Kits? No idea what to call those things.

Papa Nasty looked like a mix of a goat, snake, and timber wolf. Mama Nasty looks like a snake, deer, and panther. Disgusting, and smells like rotting corpses.

Definitely not an easy kill, like two newbie black dogs would’ve been. Papa Nasty’s claws had caught his right arm, and the rips are starting to burn. But if he leaves for doctoring, Mama Nasty will move the nest, and hide it so well Dean might never find them again.

The closest thing Dean can think of is the Chimera from Greek mythology. He can’t remember how the hero killed it, but consecrated iron seems to work just fine.

If he can get Mama Nasty out of the burrow to deal with, the young will be easy. But she’s not leaving them, just growling and snarling.

Damn, his arm hurts. The pain is spreading all the way up his shoulder, down to his fingers. Papa Nasty has been dead for an hour and Dean’s right arm is all but completely useless.

Shit. He needs to get help, have his arm seen to, before he loses it for good. But he can’t go—Mama Nasty and the young will vanish. 

He closes his eyes, slipping down to his haunches. He didn’t lose much blood, thankfully, but Papa Nasty’s claws must’ve been poisoned or something. Damn monster.

Mama Nasty roars. Dean raises his head and peers over the log just in time to see her lunge out of the burrow, straight for him. He tosses himself back, scrambling for cover.

But this is her territory. She knows every nook and cranny. And he’s already weakened.

Her fangs are really big and really sharp. She gnaws on his right shoulder and he slams the knife into her neck. Mama Nasty keens and stills, slumping down on him. She weighs at least a hundred pounds, more pressure on his injured side.

But he’s won. All that’s left are the two babies and the five mile trek to his car and the hour drive back to Dad and Sammy.

No trouble. If he could move, it’d be no trouble at all. 

.

There’s whimpering. It seeps into his fever-dream of planes falling from the sky. Someone—besides him—is in trouble. Dean forces his eyes open. Below his neck, his entire right side is numb.

That can’t be good. But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. Always look on the bright side.

Dean rolls over slowly, glacially gets to his feet. He’s nowhere near steady, but his legs aren’t hurt. It takes all his willpower to step towards the burrow, the iron knife still clenched in his left fist.

Deal with the babies and go home. Deal with the babies and he’ll be fine. 

The whimpering is coming from the burrow. Maybe they have a victim in there, someone he needs to save.

Outside the burrow, Dean drops to his knees. His right arm hangs, more than useless, dead weight throwing off his balance. There’s rustling in the burrow, something moving around, chirping and clucking.

Dean leans close, peering in, but it’s too dark to see. Something shuffles and he reaches in; tiny fangs pierce the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, but he grabs, dragging a Baby Nasty out. It snaps but doesn’t seem to have poison yet, so Dean wraps his fingers around its neck and twists.

It dies easily, fragile bones broken, and Dean feels like he killed a child.

Which he did. He stares at Baby Nasty, no bigger than a kitten, snake tail, wolf head, goat body, wolf feet. It’s a monster, ugly and stinking, and he feels so much remorse it burns.

There’s still another one, a baby monster he needs to kill. He wants to vomit.

The second Baby Nasty shuffles out. It looks like a miniature Mama Nasty, so he decides it must be a girl.

She peers up at him with green eyes in a black furry face, black body built like a fawn’s, twining black snake tail. She’s a monster, dangerous to every human, and he needs to kill her.

She chirps at him, slowly inching close, crouched down. Dean reaches for her; she’s small enough to hold in one hand, barely filling his palm, so easy to kill. Her tail wraps around his palm, so long it goes around three times. He needs to kill her. Her fur is soft and silky; she smells like a rotting corpse. 

She meows, nuzzling his palm.

Dean stands, still holding her. The poison must be addling his mind. Dad won’t let him keep her. Dad will kill her. Which he should. She’s a human-eating monster, made piecemeal of other things.

.

It takes him hours to reach the Impala; by the end, he’s nearly passed out, almost dead on his feet. The baby is curled up in his hand and after he drags himself into the car, he deposits her shotgun.

For the first time, he remembers his cellphone. He leans into the back, digging around for it, biting his lip to hold in a groan of pain. The numbness is gone and his right side is throbbing again.

He can’t find the phone.

Baby Nasty meows as she wakes up, blinking her huge green eyes at him. She doesn’t smell as bad as she did, so he must be getting used to it.

He slumps back against the seat, falls into a deep blackness. 

.

Dean wakes to daylight and his Baby Nasty whining. “You must be hungry, huh, girl?” he slurs. With great difficulty, he reaches into the back again, grabbing a duffle. He digs in it for the peanut M&Ms, ripping open the bag. He tosses it to her, the candy spilling out and raining down on her. She snaps one up and sucks on it, staring at him. She cocks her head and he watches her swallow.

She eats another one. He chuckles as she begins gobbling them down. “Knew you were a smart one,” he says, whole body aching and burning. Whatever poison the Parent Nastys put in him, it works slow, which sucks almost as much as it’s awesome. He might be able to make it home, but the pain will drag on and on…

He sighs, says, “I really should name you.” But if he names her, it’ll hurt just that much more when Dad kills her. Which he will—Dad won’t be swayed by her cuteness, or her softness, or those planet-sized eyes she’s turning on him for more food.

Dean runs his thumb down her nose and she jumps, paws scrabbling for purchase, tiny claws digging into his flesh. She sucks on his knuckles, tongue lapping at his skin. He waits a few moments before gently taking his hand away, starting the car. He has an hour drive ahead of him and he wants nothing more than to sleep, let the poison softly steal him away.

But Dad. Sammy. They’re waiting for him. They need him. This is his first hunt alone, and he won’t shame Dad by letting it defeat him.

. 

The hour drive takes almost seven, and he doesn’t have the energy to walk upstairs when he finally makes it. The kit sleeps most of the way, waking only when they cross the county line. Dean parks then slumps over the wheel.

His right side is back to being numb. The poison is finally moving over to burn his left arm. His head is murky, his breathing shallow.

Dean knows his body is steadily shutting down, one system at a time.

Baby Nasty clambers into his lap, chirping. He has no food for her, no energy to even pet her. Both arms are useless and he can’t feel anything, all sensation slowly sinking away.

_Bye, Sammy_ , he thinks. _Sorry, Dad_.

Baby Nasty chirps again, and Dean—

.

Wetness on his face. Pressure on his right shoulder. Warmth allover. Rumbling above him—comforting sound.

Hand on his forehead, moving down to his cheek.

“—c’mon, man, this attempt for attention is beneath you.” The fingers curl around his jaw. “If you don’t wake up, I’ll tape over all your music with… with ABBA! That’ll show you, won’t it? No more Metallica or Led Zeppelin. Just ABBA. And I’ll dye your hair lavender, put pink sparkles on the Impala. Dad’ll even help me. Right, Dad?”

_Sammy._

“You hear him, son,” a deeper rumbling says. “You don’t wake up, Dean, and I’ll be following your brother’s orders.”

ABBA? Lavender hair? _Pink sparkles?_ They wouldn’t dare.

“C’mon, Dean, kick my ass for even thinking about it.”

The pain is gone. And the numbness. His body aches, is tired, but feels… whole.

“… bitch…” he slurs, eyes barely slitting open. “… traitor…”

Sam and Dad chuckle, bone-deep relief in the sounds.

“How you feelin’?” Dad asks.

Dean closes his eyes again, unable to think up a lie. “Tired.”

“Sleep will help with the healing,” Dad says. “Don’t worry—we’ll be here when you wake up.”

He sinks back under to them talking quietly, and Sam’s hand never leaves his face. 

.

Dean wakes up really having to piss. He feels well-rested and healthy, so he rolls out of bed and hurries to the bathroom.

His energy sags swiftly, he learns, and once he’s dealt with the most pressing issue, Dean looks in the mirror above the sink. He’s pale, freckles standing out sharply on his skin. His hair is too-long, greasy. He’s shirtless; where the Parent Nastys got him is still jagged and puffy. Healing, though. He moves his shoulder and there’s a residual ache, some stiffness, but he’ll be fine.

He’s tired again, so he slumps back on the bed, is asleep in moments.

.

Next time he wakes up, Sam’s sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed. “Hungry?” he asks.

“Hell yeah,” Dean answers. 

“Shower,” Sam says, making one of his lesser bitch-faces. “Then food.”

.

Dad’s fully healed, too, laryngitis gone. He makes pancakes and Dean eats three before feeling like vomiting. Dad and Sam make small talk—something about school and a Mrs. Monroe who has it in for the seniors. Dean doesn’t pay attention, trying to keep his pancakes down.

Sam offers him a glass of grape juice. Dean drains it and his stomach settles.

After breakfast, Dad pins him to a chair with a look. “Tell me, son,” he begins. “What happened?”

Dean wants to ask where his Baby Nasty is, but he knows Dad killed her. And Dad was right to do it—she was a monster. A man-eater. Hell, one day she’d have poisonous fangs and claws, be the size of an extra-large wolf, and eat people for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She _had_ to be put down.

He tells Dad everything, ending with when he pulled up outside the apartment, too exhausted to do anything but die. He doesn’t meet Dad’s eyes or look at Sam. He screwed up, almost got himself killed. He has no clue how he’s still alive. 

Dad says, “I’m proud of you, Dean.”

“What?” Shock raises Dean’s head.

“I’m proud of you,” Dad repeats. “You had bad information and you still dealt with the hunt, killed the threat. I couldn’t have done it better.”

Dean stares at him. “But I—” he starts.

Dad cuts him off. “But nothing, Dean. You did good, kid. Now go rest.”

Dean looks at Sam, but all his little brother does is smile.

So Dean goes rest—fucking tired _again_ —collapsing back on his bed and sleeps.

.

This time, he wakes to meowing by his ear, small paws on his neck. He doesn’t move, assessing the situation.

Then he realizes it must be his Baby Nasty and he reaches up to grab her, rolling over to sit up.

She’s quite alive, those same eyes blinking up at him. She doesn’t smell at all, her fur is dusty, and Dean hugs her to his chest.

She meows plaintively, adding a chirp at the end. She must be hungry. Dean slips out of bed, still cradling her, and pads to the kitchen. She looks around curiously. He talks softly, just random thoughts that pop into his head. Her ears swivel to listen. 

The kitchen is empty; it’s night out. The microwave says 3:00. Dean digs in the fridge and finds lunchmeat. He sets Baby Nasty on the counter and gets down a plate, ripping open the ham to put on it. Baby Nasty sniffs at the meat then gobbles it, looks for more.

The whole package of ham is gone before she’s satisfied. He fills her a bowl of water, which she drains. Dean rubs her head, behind her ears, down her nose. She preens, tail catching his wrist.

He hasn’t had a chance to really look at her yet, but he studies her, there in the florescent kitchen-light.

Baby Nasty is the size of a small kitten. Her head and feet are like a kitten’s. But her body is a baby deer, just much littler and completely black. Her tail is like a snake, also black, twice as long as her body. She should be ugly, like her parents and brother were. But Dean thinks she’s adorable.

“What the hell is _that_?”

He’s jerked back to the real world by Dad’s stupefied voice. Dean looks over, pulling her close. “This is Baby Nasty,” he answers, turning to the side to shield her with his body. “She’s _mine_.”

Dad stares at him, then her, then back at Dean. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “If she’s that survivor of the nest you told me about, then you know she has to die.”

Dean tries stepping back, but he hits the counter. “Dad.” Baby Nasty purrs against his chest. “We can raise her. She’ll help us!”

Dad looks disappointed. “You know better.”

Dean swallows. Yeah, he does.

His hands tighten around her; she squeaks, struggles in his grip. “Can’t we let her go?” he asks desperately. “Give her a chance?”

Dad’s smile is gentle. “No, son.” He steps forward. “Give her here, Dean. I’ll take care of this.”

Dean can’t. She trusts him.

“Dean,” Dad says again, command in his tone. “Give her to me.”

“Dad, _please_.” Baby Nasty curls up in his grip, settling for a nap.

Dad steps even closer, thunderclouds on his face, anger tightening his body. Dean slips back along the counter. He has no idea what he’s doing, why he’s disobeying Dad. Maybe the poison did addle his mind. Maybe Baby Nasty has cast some sort of spell.

Maybe a thousand things that don’t matter, because Dad will kill Baby Nasty and then kick his ass.

“Wait!” Sam shouts, getting between them. He’s taller than both but still a beanpole; one shove from Dad and he’d be out of the way.

But Dad pauses.

“Maybe Dean’s right, Dad,” Sam says, back to Dean, face right in Dad’s. “I’ve been researching, ever since Dean got back—there are a few cases where one of these things was trained.”

It’s complete bullshit. Dean can read it in Sam’s voice.

Dad just looks at Sam, standing still. He listens as Sam continues, “Just give me a little more time, so I can look a couple of things up. Just give me that, Dad. Please.”

Dad gazes past Sam, meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean doesn’t recognize the look on his face. “Two days,” he says, turns, and walks out the kitchen.

Dean slumps down, leaning on the counter, all strength deserting him. He’s never disobeyed Dad, never fought him for anything, never since he was ten years old. He closes his eyes, fingers stroking Baby Nasty’s spine. 

“What do I do, Sammy?” he asks quietly.

Sam leans beside him. “Convince Dad you can train her.” He looks at Baby Nasty with wide, awed eyes, reaches out to touch her.

Dean itches to jerk her away, but he refrains. Sammy won’t hurt her.

In her sleep, Baby Nasty preens against Sam’s finger. 

.

The two days pass swiftly. Dad is almost never home. Sam spends nearly all his time at the library, doing the research he told Dad he’d already done. Dean’s glad it’s the weekend.

He feeds and bathes Baby Nasty, talking to her all the while. She purrs and chirps at him, meows and clucks.

Dean still can’t bear to name her. He whistles and snaps and clucks, and she comes to him, ears pricked and snake-tail twining behind her. She looks at him with her large eyes, and he knows that he has to keep her or he might just die.

What he doesn’t know is _why_.

.

Sam returns at nine pm when the library closes. Dad pulls up outside and quietly steps in the apartment. Dean scoops up Baby Nasty and waits at the kitchen table.

“Well?” Dad says to Sam, sitting beside Dean.

Sam shoots a quick look to Dean, then straightens and faces Dad head on. “They’re like dogs, sir. Can be trained, and are often extremely loyal to one person.”

“You’re sure?” Dad asks. Dean almost thinks he hears relief in Dad’s voice.

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.” 

.

Dean sets her on the bed beside him, puts his hand on her tiny flank. She curls up, tail wrapping around his palm.

“You need a name,” he says. “Something strong… but pretty.” Her ears flick. “Maybe Greek or Roman…” He studies her, running through his mythology. “Artemis?” She yawns. “Diana, Selene, Venus, Pandora, Leda, Leto—”

“Dude,” Sam says. “Some of us have school tomorrow.”

“Sorry.” Dean grins down at her. “Sammy needs his beauty rest, girl,” he whispers.

From the other bed, Sam huffs in mock exasperation.

Baby Nasty rolls over, showing her soft belly. Dean trails his finger down it. “Something regal,” he murmurs. She bats at his hand. Part of him wants to call her _Mary_ , but Dad would never ever go for that.

He’s almost asleep when the name comes to him.

“Caliph,” he whispers. “Cally.”

She meows and burrows under his chin. 

.

He feeds her Lucky Charms the next morning.

“Get her off the table,” Dad orders, entering the kitchen.

Cally chirps and hops down. Dean sets her bowl in front of her. “I named her,” he tells Dad. “Caliph.”

Dad flicks him a glance. “I truly hope you know what you’re doing, Dean.”

Dean smiles at him.

. 

Sam has school and Dad’s got a hunt lined up. Dean’s still regaining his strength, tiring easily, so they tell him to stay home. He takes Cally into the den and drags a string by her paws. She crouches and pounces, over and over.

Dean whiles away half the day playing with her. He can nearly forget what he did, killing her parents and brother. He watches her twist and spin in the air, sinewy like the cat of her feet and head, and thinks, _I’m sorry, Cally. You’d probably be happier with your own kind_.

Clear as daylight, he hears a little girl say _I like it here_.

He jumps, falling over backward, and looks around. “Hello?”

_Humans have good food_ , the little girl continues. _And don’t smell bad._

Dean stares down at Cally. She grins up at him. 

“Is that… you?” he asks, feeling like he’s lost his mind.

She jumps, digging her baby claws into his sleeve and climbing up his arm. _I like it here,_ she repeats. _With you and your clan. Even the alpha. You’re home_. She nuzzles into his cheek, purring. _Don’t send me away._

“I don’t think I could bear it,” he says honestly. “But there will be rules.”

She hops off his shoulder, landing with pure feline grace before toppling over. She sits up, tail wrapping around her haunches, and waits, blinking slowly.

Dean sighs. “Whenever your venom comes in, you can’t use it.”

_Not on **anybody**?_ Her tone reminds him of Sam as a little kid, when Dad punished him by taking away his favorite toy.

“If I say it’s okay, or they’re threatening one of us—Sam, Dad, you, me. But only then.”

He thinks for a moment. “You’ll probably only be able to go out at night, when you get bigger. Okay, Cally? You don’t look enough like any normal animal.”

She raises her front right paw and licks it, brushing the side of her face. _Those aren’t so bad_ , she muses. _Can we play now?_

“Will you talk to Dad or Sam?”

She stands, stretching out her tiny front legs and arching her spine, yawning. _I don’t think I can_ , she says. _But you took me, loved me, named me. I am bonded to you_. She sounds confused. _You’re not like me, but you named me. We’re bonded_. He scoops her up, holding her to his chest with one hand. _I don’t think that’s supposed to happen, Dean._

“It’ll be alright, Cally,” he promises. He picks up the string, dangles it in front of her. She squirms out of his grip, lunging for it.

He laughs and moves it out of her reach. 

.

Dean decides to make spaghetti that night. Sam and Dad, for some reason he can’t really fathom, love spaghetti. Dean can eat it, but it’s not his favorite. Cally watches from the doorway, asking a question every few heartbeats. Finally, to head her off, he just scoops her up and puts her on his shoulder, explaining what he’s doing every step of the way.

She finds cooking fascinating. _But why are you doing that?_ she asks, peering over the pot of sauce from his shoulder.

“Because it tastes better to us,” he says. “And is healthier, probably.”

The front door swings shut; Cally jumps down and takes off, meowing.

Dean shakes his head, stirring the sauce. He puts the top on the pot and meets Sam in the kitchen doorway. Sam’s holding Cally with one hand and stroking her spine with the other.

“Spaghetti?” Sam says, eyebrow raised.

Dean shrugs.

“Well,” Sam tells him. “Smells good.”

.

Dad arrives just before they sit down. Dean serves him a plate and Dad slips into the chair at the head of the table.

Cally’s crouched between Dean’s feet, keeping up a steady stream of chatter no one else can hear. She’s just talking to talk, not waiting for him to respond.

Dean asks about Dad’s hunt and Sam’s day at school. They mainly carry on the conversation and he just listens. It’s barely six, but he’s already worn out.

After they eat, Dad sends him off to bed. “We’ll deal with the clean-up,” Dad tells him. “Just rest.”

“I’m not a baby,” he grumbles, pride dinged and too tired to think better of it. “I made the mess, so I should clean it up.”

Dad cocks his head. “That was not a suggestion, son.”

Dean wants to bristle, but he really is worn to the bone. “Yes, sir,” he says. Cally takes off and hops onto his bed.

Dean falls facedown beside her, not even bothering to take off his pants or shirt. _Your alpha makes you grouchy?_ she asks, settling on his head.

He reaches up and gently grabs her, rolling over and placing her on his chest.

_Only sometimes_ , he thinks to her, wondering if it’ll work. _But he knows what’s best._

_Alphas always do_ , she responds.

Dean doesn’t want to ask. She’s still just a baby, and might not understand. _Are you sure you wanna stay with me?_ He pauses. _I mean… I killed your family._

Her claws gently dig into his shirt, into his skin. _You’ve only been good to me, Dean_. She sounds older, much older, peering into his eyes. _You named me_.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”

.

Weeks pass. Cally triples in size, then her growth slows. She eats anything Dean gives her, but won’t touch food from Dad or Sam. Dean goes on an easy hunt with Dad, leaving Cally in Sam’s care.

Dean learns when Cally’s venom comes in because he takes her out one night and she catches a rat. Almost instantly after she claws it—a small, quick swipe—the rat swells up and dies.

He stares. _That didn’t happen to me_ , he thinks. _Damn._

Cally blinks up at him, then gulps the rat down. _Dean?_

He doesn’t move, mentally back in that forest, back burning and gasping, back sure he’d die before he saw Sam and dad again.

A small chirp. _Dean? I’m sorry—come back._

“Cally,” he says. “How potent is your poison?”

She hesitates, brushing against his legs. _As potent as I want it to be. I can inject it by choice. I’ll never hurt you, or our clan._

_I know, baby_ , he tells her, pulling her up into his arms. _I just…_

She licks his chin. _You named me, Dean_. Purring, she settles against him, her head beneath his jaw. _You fed me and gave me warmth. We are bonded._

He heads back to the apartment, her tail twining around his arm. “What does that mean?” he asks. “Bonded?”

She thinks for a moment before responding. _My kind bond for life, Dean. Our bonded name us and we name our bonded—we are nothing until we meet._

He freezes; she rears up to meet his eyes. “But you didn’t name me,” he says. “So what does that mean?”

She shrugs, tail swishing. _In my memories, nothing like this has happened_. She grins, hopping out his grip to the ground. _We’re new, Dean._

He sighs. “Great.” 

Cally looks back over her shoulder. _I’ll take care of you, Dean, and our clan. Don’t worry._

_A month ago, I could hold you in one hand, sweetheart_. He smirks. _Forgive me for doubting._

She twitches her left ear, tail lashing, and stalks away from him. _See if I use my venom to help you._

Dean laughs, walking quickly to catch up. “Sorry, Caliph.”

She keeps her face turned away from him. He leans down to flick her ear and leaps forward. She hisses and follows.

They play tag all the way home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I was writing a sequel when I learned that my cat Isabel, who Cally was based on, died. So, the sequel never got past this, and never will. It would have been an AU for the pilot.

They discovered by accident that their connection lasted for up to twenty miles. Then it’d start flickering in and out, static on the radio, and pain would shoot through both of them.

So, yeah, they never separated. While Dean’s talking to Sam, trying to convince him for just this one thing, she prowls outside the building, on watch. She’s big now, larger than any wolf, and something’s prickling her senses. 

_Danger_ , she tells him. _Anger. We shouldn’t stay much longer._

_I feel it too_ , he replies. _Sammy’s bein’ stubborn, though, isn’t listenin’ to a word I say._

Something is coming closer. _Dean_ , she hisses, _get him and get out, now_. Her tail lashes, ruff rising; she feels the venom coursing in her, ready to attack, defend. This is her territory because it’s Sam’s territory, and she’ll defend Pack with her life.


End file.
